


The Long Summer Of Maester Jeraume

by SaintEpithet



Series: Lovecraft meets Westeros - Dark Corners of the Known World [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adventure, Basilisk Isles (ASoIaF), Book: The World of Ice and Fire, Content Warnings in AN, Don't copy to another site, Fictional Disease, Gen, Horror, Lands of the Long Summer (ASoIaF), Lovecraftian, M for Mature Themes, Maesters (ASoIaF), Mystery, Naath, Oldtown (Westeros), POV First Person, Pirates, Sea Travel, Sothoryos, Summer Sea (ASoIaF), Unseen Westeros, Westeros, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintEpithet/pseuds/SaintEpithet
Summary: Maester Jeraume, a controversial artist from Oldtown, never returned from a voyage meant to prove his claims of having discovered 'Valyrian Marble'. Determined to clear Jeraume's name, an art collector and ardent admirer of the artist hires a young sea captain to investigate the mysterious disappearance - and perhaps expose the Conclave's flimsy cover-up. The journey takes the crew from Oldtown to the corsair nests of Talon and beyond.





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> **Rating & Warnings**  
> I assume readers who click on horror stories aren't too squeamish, therefore I keep tags vague and spoiler-free. There will be deaths with varying degrees of gruesomeness, mentions of body horror, suicide, prostitution, and slavery. Nothing too graphic, the rating is a generic catch-all "M for mature themes" to be on the safe side.

"In the light of Maester Haurus' elevation to the position of arch maester, and his recent publication regarding the disappearance of his predecessor, I feel a need to rectify the wealth of false information that was unleashed in its wake. Certain names, including my own, will be changed or outright omitted for the protection of individuals involved in the events of my recount, though this should not be taken as evidence of falsehood or secrecy on my part. I myself have lived far too long now, and I give little thought to the reprecussions that might await after shining light on this matter. However, I do not wish to discredit friends and acquaintances whose names might be tarnished by the uncaring company they keep. The Conclave is a powerful institution and I fear the maesters might unleash their wrath against innocent targets nonetheless.

My peers have urged me to refrain from telling this admittedly fantastical tale, but my desire for truth is too strong to take what I know with me to the grave. Maester Jeraume has been a valued friend for many years and I cannot stand seeing his life's work discredited. I admit the discovery in question might be unbelievable to some, however, this is the truth and it needs to be told. My friend has not taken his own life when the Conclave deemed him a fraud. His artwork has not been created by the recently deceased Qohorik stone mason now credited for its creation. And I will not idly watch as his former collegues sully Jeraume's good name.

As many may know, Maester Jeraume has been well-respected ever since he forged the first link of his chain. His knowledge of literature and art was unrivaled, and throughout his life, Jeraume's thirst for learning was never quenched. Much of our understanding of Valyrian poetry is owed to his relentless research and continous travels across the Narrow Sea. Restaurations of many great paintings bear his name, including the much beloved 'Mother of Oldtown' that many believed irreparable after the harbor fire, twelve years ago.

However, I cannot and will not let the affection for a friend cloud my judgement. Praising only his accomplishments would do a disservice to anyone seeking full understanding of the events I recount. Genius and insanity are two sides of one coin, and Maester Jeraume certainly embodied this saying. Some of his works, early paintings and statuettes in particular, had a peculiar, odd quality to them and were often described as 'deliberately incoherent' by more seasoned artists. A notion I disagree with to the day, I should add.

I have always been an avid collector of art, an interest nurtured from early age on by my father. Unlike so many noble sons looking to make a name for themselves in this world, he had never been drawn to the lists. Of course, he had practiced swordplay and horsemanship in his youth without grumbling, had done everything that was expected of him as the heir. Though he was said to have talent, he lacked the passion and never dreamt of great victories in combat or tourneys. His imagination was captured by tales of travels to distant shores ever since he had visited the port of Oldtown as a young boy. When my father came of age, he followed this calling and returned to the place where his fascination had been sparked. For one short spring and a much longer summer, he studied in the Citadel under Maester Kallayne, much revered for his vast knowledge of cartography and navigation. My father came home with a link forged of electrum, which would remain his most prized possession throughout his life.

He sailed for many years, until my grandfather's passing, and he sailed again when I was old enough to take his place in the Great Hall during his absence. Many pieces of my collection were gifts from my father, mementos from his travels to the Free Cities and beyond. Myrish tapestries, wood carvings from Qohor, paintings and sculptures from Lys, Volantis and even the Summer Isles filled the private halls of the castle and more were added each time my father returned from distant..."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

I put down the letter and sighed to myself when I realized no less than six more closely written pages still lay on the desk. Though the author claimed to value anonymity, citing fear of repercussions as reason, his habit of rambling worked against him. It was quite obvious that Lord Buntley had written this letter, I was certain of that before I had even skimmed the first page. His motives were not much of a secret either. Yes, he had gone through great lengths to frame it as a matter of honor, the noble attempt to clean his friend's name. However, I knew the man, the reality behind the supposedly selfless intention. Honor played only a small part in Lord Buntley's motiviation. His greater concern lay with the value of his art collection, or to put it more bluntly, the loss of it.

After skimming another two pages of affronted ramblings, I put the letter down again and went to the sideboard to pour myself a new cup of wine. The jug was lighter in my hand than I had hoped it would be. Running short of good wine was just one more subtle reminder that I had been living beyond my means for a while. It had been six months since I had left the Citadel with my very own link of electrum, but an opportunity to use my knowledge in practice had not yet presented itself. Despite the size and bustle of Oldtown's harbor, there was little demand for first mates or navigators. Fleet owners and captains only hired sailors for grunt work in the taverns, and I hadn't studied the finer points of cartography and navigation to manhandle cargo or scrub dirty decks.

I returned to the table and the letter, thoughtlessly left behind by the room's previous occupant. The circumstances of Maester Jeraume's disappearance were shrouded in mystery even within the halls of the Citadel and admittedly, this had intrigued me during my studies. Never enough to look into it, but I couldn't deny that I had pricked my ears when I heard whispers about it in the taverns. A famed artist and respected scholar who suddenly vanished during his travels, the controversy surrounding his work, the all too simple, too ostensible explanation. It was a good mystery, well-suited to take a man's mind off more pressing matters for an evening.

Perhaps the pages had reached me for a reason, I thought as I continued to read. After all, my situation afforded me time to indulge in musings about such riddles. Coming up with a satisfying answer would not pay for more wine, but neither did dawdling about at the harbor. A diversion like this would keep me occupied for a few days and once I'd continue my search for paid work, I might even see things in a new light.

I kept reading, though now more intently, no longer skimming and skipping lines. Lord Buntley had been a frequent visitor of the Citadel, but I had never spoken to him, and I wanted to be well-prepared for the plan that slowly took form in my mind. Tomorrow, I had decided, I'd seek him out, ask questions the whispers in taverns had not answered. I knew Lord Buntley was a staunch admirer of Maester Jeraume's marvelous work, and well-acquainted with the artist himself. If there were details the Conclave had omitted from the formal statement, he would be able to provide valuable insights. Lord Buntley wasn't a scholar, so I was doubtful about his claims regarding the discovery of Valyrian secrets. A stone imbued with ancient magic that made it more suited for sculpts and carvings alike? It seemed far-fetched. Maester Jeraume had never obtained a link forged from Valyrian Steel and hadn't had much of an interest in higher mysteries before this strange kind of rock supposedly turned up. However, Lord Buntley had funded some of his expeditions. If nothing else, he'd know where the maester's travels had taken him, including the destination of the voyage Jeraume never returned from.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Light rain greeted me when I stepped onto the street in the morning - a blessing for the Reach's golden fields, just another minor inconvenience in the dull life of a stranded sailor. Yes, this diversion had found me at the right time. I had spent too many months loitering about at the docks, watching ships come and go, wishing they would take me with them to less tedious horizons. The taverns and inns I had occupied in the past offered little to challenge my wits or quench my thirst for adventure. My way through the cobbled streets, across bridges and through lively alleys, reminded me that there was a city outside the taverns, a sprawling world beyond the dreariness of the docks.

Lord Buntley's white-washed manse lay by the Honeywine, near the elaborate gardens of the Seven Shrines. Many townhouses in this area belonged to nobles from other parts of the Seven Kingdoms; shameless display of wealth and exalted positions. Some only occupied their palaces for a few months while they took care of important business in Oldtown. However, Lord Buntley was not among them. He permanently resided in the city for close to three decades by now and had only returned to his ancestral seat in the eastern Reach twice. If gossip held any truth, he left the castle in the hands of a brother, a man better suited to lordly duties and without a vast interest in the arts.

I was surprised just how quickly I was invited inside once a maid had informed Lord Buntley of my unannounced arrival. Shabby robes like mine, even though they were clean and well-maintained regardless of age, were a rare sight in this part of the city. On my way, I had almost made my peace with the prospect of being turned away at the gate, denied further access into the elevated world I had entered. Yet there was no hesitation when I introduced myself and explained why I wished to speak to Lord Buntley. If anything, the maid seemed relieved for a moment, just before she hurried away to inform her master that a guest was awaiting him in the parlor.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Lord Buntley was a stately man, wider than tall, almost bursting out of his elaborate robes. His tousled curls had been copper when I had last seen him, during one of his visits to the Citadel, two years ago. Now there was a touch of silver on his temples and the hairline was receding, and the shrill colors of his attire stood in stark contrast to deep-set, tired eyes. His voice hadn't lost its volume though. It was still as booming as ever and echoed with enthusiasm when he greeted me.

His apparent delight over my visit made me feel less out of place in a manse that rivaled the splendor of the Free Cities. Exquisite carpets from Myr covered floors of white marble, tapestries and paintings lined the walls. Wherever I looked, my eyes found new wonders; painted vases, masterfully carved statues, ornate curtains and displays of exotic weapons from the most remote places of the Known World. The upholstered armchairs by the hearth, a work of art in itself, had to be worth more than the entire tavern I stayed in, and once we sat down, a maid served Dornish wine in a sophisticated crystal decanter.

"Valyrian Marble," Lord Buntley explained with an air of importance once the conversation had moved past introductory pleansantries. "A discovery that could have changed the fine arts forever!" He scoffed and drank a swig from his wine, shimmering blood-red like rubies in the glow of the fire.

"Why didn't it?" I inquired, still looking around in the large parlor with awe. "Were the maesters not interested in its research? I'd have wagered a new kind of stone would have sparked quite the excitement."

"Arch Maester Ortys, this sniveling scoundrel!" Lord Buntley gasped as if my words had implied something very improper. "He had the audacity to smash a priceless carving, only to deduct it was made from 'ordinary granite'! May he choke on his steel link and every stone in the world!" He took a deep breath and leaned closer to me. "I should pity him and his envy, but I don't," he said, sat up again and straightened his back. "But it is well-known that he was always a jealous man, prone to begrudge the achievements of others."

I knew of Arch Maester Ortys only in passing, as the subjects he taught never pertained to my studies. He was respected by his peers and I couldn't recall hearing any rumors or accussations of this kind, but I thought it better to not question my host and let him go on.

"It is a disgrace how Jeraume's lifework has been treated!" Lord Buntley's puffy cheeks flushed and he quickly drank another sip from his wine. "Nobody has ever heard of this supposedly gifted stone mason from Qohor! Except for Ortys, of course, and laymen don't doubt the claims of an arch maester. They fear the repercussions if they call him a liar, but I'll expose this duplicitous snake for what he truly his!"

Taken aback by the sudden outburst, I only nodded and quietly drank from the good Dornish wine. Perhaps this was a waste of my time. After all, I had listened to Lord Buntley's ramblings about the incompetence of various maesters for close to an hour, yet not learned any details that shed light on Jeraume's demise. "I presume you have evidence to corroborate that Maester Jeraume's discovery was genuine?" I asked while Lord Buntley, still huffing and puffing with anger, waved for more wine.

"Of course I do!" He placed the crystal glass on the table and heaved his corpulent body out of the chair. "The artwork speaks for itself! No common stone can be carved in such marvelous ways, not even by the gifted hands of a true master. Come, let me show you."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Lord Buntley led me up wide, marble stairs and down a long hallway until we reached large, richly ornamented double doors. Two household guards, posted left and right, opened them when Lord Buntley approached, and revealed a vaulted hall, flooded with sunlight through the arched windows facing the yard.

My eyes went over with wonder as we entered the room and I let my gaze wander across the displayed works of art. Though I was hardly an expert, I recognized certain pieces that I had heard described in the past. 'Summer in Maidenpool', a famed painting by Lady Janyse Buckwell, hung resplendent above the white marble fireplace. Next to the enormous, framed canvas I saw a set of seven wood carvings depicting the Hightower's construction. There were vases from the distant lands of Yi Ti, furniture made of tigerwood and polished mahogany from the Summer Isles, old tomes bound in leather and silk, and pedestals holding masterpieces of craftsmanship, gold adorned with pale jewels, painted ivory, among other precious metals and gems. Lord Buntley's collection, I imagined, rivaled the treasures of foreign kings, and even they might have envied this wealth of exotic wonders.

The far side of the room was evidently dedicated to the works of artists from Oldtown. A mural depicting the Starry Sept under a vivid blue night sky took up most of the wall, an eyecatching backdrop for the the smaller displays. However, my eyes were drawn to the centerpiece, standing tall between easels, shelves and ebony tables. It was the statue of a woman reaching up to the sky, her slender fingers seemingly touching the stars over Oldtown. The sculptor - Maester Jeraume, I presumed – had carved breathtaking details from the unassuming material, an ash-grey stone with the faint, fine grain of marble. Every fold, every wrinkle of the flowing gown looked natural, as did the woman's long braided hair. The attention to detail on her face was equally stunning. Subtle wrinkles around her eyes and lips, even eyelashes and polished pearl jewelry on her ears.

 

Lord Buntley's tumid features were filled with triumph and pride when I tore my gaze away from the statue and looked back to him. "Jeraume's masterpiece," he explained with an air of importance. "Before he left for the voyage he would never return from, he was more determined than ever to prove Ortys wrong. Jeraume challenged him before his departure, said he'd bring irrefutable evidence for the Valyrian Marble's astonishing properties, a work of art nobody could replicate using common stones." He scoffed and tugged the collar of his flamboyant robe. "Ortys refused to look at it. I invited him several times and he always denied me, saying as far as he was concerned, this case was long closed."

I quietly nodded and carefully considered my answer. "A truly impressive piece," I finally said. "Doubtlessly, Jeraume was very gifted, but I must ask... How can you be certain this is his work? As far as I understand, nobody has seen him sculpt this Valyrian Marble. Nor has he ever brought back samples of the raw stone, which sparked the suspicion that he purchased the finished work from Qohor."

"Impossible!" Lord Buntley huffed and gestured to a row of smaller displays, lined up in front of the mural. "Take a look! These are Jeraume's earlier, less ambitious pieces." He pointed out a pedestal that held a red velvet pillow, atop of it a flower made of the same shimmering stone as the statue. "While the earliest works are, shall we say, generic – flowers, seashells, simple shapes..." He wandered along the length of the wall, nodding to other displays. "...he completed several of my requests later. A Qohorik mason could never achieve this accuracy and detail in things I described. This, for example!" He stopped in front of an ebony table that held a smaller statue, a Dornish dessert fox in repose. "There are similar beasts living in the Hills of Norvos, a common motif in northern Essosi art. Even the best sculptor would have made mistakes, slipped into old habits resulting in a resemblance to their native foxes."

Frankly, I was far from convinced that no Qohorik mason had ever seen or sculpted Dornish foxes, but I simply nodded and studied the display more closely. Yes, there was no doubt after which kind of beast this statue had been modeled; it was a fox from our shores, albeit a small one. The fur, though lithic and grey, looked so lifelike I almost expected the fine hairs to move in the breeze of my breath. "In your letter you urged the Conclave to reconsider their position," I said after a while. "What, do you think, will convince them of the authenticity of the statues and carvings? Do you have reason to believe that Jeraume is alive?"

"I do," Lord Buntley gave back with utter conviction. "I funded his last expedition to acquire raw Valyrian Marble. Had he demonstrated his skill, sculpted a statue under the eyes of Ortys and his cronies, nobody could have discredited his discovery." He eyed me up from head to toe, then slightly nodded to himself with apparent satisfaction. "Yet I have not had success in finding a captain willing to go where I believe Jeraume is being held."

 


	2. Act II

I hadn't hesitated for a moment when Lord Buntley made the proposal, only a fool would have turned him down. A ship under my command; state of the art, with a crew of my choosing, and a generous stipend to cover expenses during my first great voyage. Yes, the destination was one captains shunned for its fickle nature and wealth of dangers, but all I saw at the time was a chance. Fame and infamy were two sides of a coin on this mission, however, the odds were firmly in my favor. If I'd find Maester Jeraume, believed to be dead, and took him back to Oldtown, it would rouse quite a stir whether he'd prove his lofty claims about 'Valyrian Marble' or not. And if I failed, if I returned empty-handed, I'd still have made a name for myself. I'd be the captain who sailed to the corsair nests of Talon without fear, navigated the treacherous waters of the Basilisk Isles, and came back alive. With a reputation like this, I would never find myself out of work, would never be stranded in the taverns of Oldtown again. It was hardly a gamble. I had everything to gain and nothing to lose from this grand adventure, and I felt well-prepared for the voyage.

The _Azure Tide_ was a beauty if the seas had ever seen one, with sky blue and bright orange sails resembling House Buntley's colors. She accomodated a hundred and sixty-five men, and I had hand-picked my crew from two very different sources. Lord Buntley had presented me with a list of experienced men who had sailed under his banner before. I had filled positions of authority from this selection; the first mate, the quartermaster, the boatswains, and a good cook for my own convenience at sea. The lower ranks, however, had been recruited from the taverns I spent so much time in throughout the past months. These men had suffered hard times on land and were as eager to set sail as I was myself. In the end, no experience in the world could replace a raw thirst for adventure, as Lord Buntley's long-winded search for a daring captain had shown.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

We had left the port of Planky Town almost three weeks ago when Gimor, my first mate, sought me out in my cabin. As always, his attire was impeccable and his demenaor a little too stern, but his fifteen years at sea made up for the dull company he provided. He waited by the door and noisily cleared his throat to rouse my attention, but I took my time and only acknowledged the disturbance after carefully rolling up the chart I had studied.

"My apologies for the intrusion, captain", he solemnly began, then got straight to the point. "Something needs to be done about the consumption of rum. I found six sailors drunk on the hallway outside the storage compartment in the morning, among them the two men supposed to guard the supplies." He crossed his hands behind his back and came closer to my desk. "It is hardly the first incident of this kind since our departure from Planky Town. And with all due respect, captain, you assured me you'd limit the crew's access thrice, yet by now nothing has been done to address this problem."

"Were these men on duty?" I inquired. "Were they supposed to be elsewhere? Was work left undone or neglected?"

Gimor shot me a skeptical glance before he answered, resuming his dull, dutiful glare straight ahead. "Only the two guards, Segan and Davyn," he said. "They did not leave their posts, but they certainly were not doing their duty."

"Assign them to a different post then," I gave back and reached for my charts. "The crew works hard day in and day out, I don't begrudge them the little diversion they find." Now Gimor huffed and openly stared at me, but I commanded his silence with a wave of my hand. "Spare me your counsel. I know you disagree with me, we've had this debate more than once. As long as their drinking and dice games don't get in the way, my orders won't change. Once we reach Talon, you'll be glad for a crew of roughnecks who fit in with the locals."

"Their behavior does 'get in the way'," Gimor replied through gritted teeth.

I sighed, pushed the charts away and leaned back in my chair. Did the man never tire of questioning my authority? Was a little graditude for the second chance I had given him asked too much? Lord Buntley had stripped him of his command after Gimor had lost one too many barrels of cargo, and his name had almost been omitted from the list I was given to pick my crew from. Of course, he had blamed thieving sailors for the missing barrels, but it still spoke to his lack of leadership skills that it had happened under his nose. I found his years of experience useful enough and made my case for him nonetheless, and Lord Buntley had ultimately sanctioned my choice. By now, I had begun to regret it as Gimor was not only dull, but also petty and clearly disliked that he had to take orders from a young captain like me.

"How so?" I asked, though I was not in the mood for a lengthy discussion, expecting nothing more than the usual lecture about how Gimor would run the ship in my place.

"We'll run out of rum long before we reach the Basilisk Isles, even if we enforce the daily rations and post more reliable guards," he said instead. "Quartermaster Kiran estimates the last barrel will be empty within eight more days."

I considered that for a moment, then I unrolled one of the charts with a swift, elegant motion. "Set course for Naath," I offered an equally swift solution. "We'll take in new supplies there and for now, we'll ration the rum."

"Naath?" Gimor's voice betrayed that he had reservations.

"I'm well-aware of the butterfly fever," I firmly cut him off before he could say them out loud. "The danger is grossly overstated. Not a single case of the disease has been reported in the past years, some maesters even consider it close to extinct. But to put your mind at ease, we'll anchor at night and conduct our business as fast as we can."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The coastline of Naath almost looked out of place after seeing nothing but water for several weeks. It had been a calm day at sea, and a calm night was to follow. We had struck the sails offshore in the late afternoon to wait for nightfall and the mood was elated. Rationing the rum and wine had not been a popular decision, but Gimor had insisted on enforcing the order nonetheless. Unlike many of the crewmen, he evidently lacked an appreciation for the freedom afforded to sailors, and I told him to ease up more than once, to no avail. The sight of Naath's exotic shores finally brought relief from the tension, and the crew confirmed that my approach to leadership was more fruitful than Gimor's iron fist. The dinghies were prepared long before the sun had fully set, the cargo deck had been tidied up, and the men had been on their best behavior all day in hopes of being selected for the landing party.

"It's too dangerous," I heard someone say when I made my round on deck. "I once met a sailor from New Ghis who was the sole survivor of a voyage to Naath! He told me the Butterfly Fever ravaged the ship within days! In the end it was only him, a ship boy and their maimed cook on a raft, and those two perished before they reached shallow waters."

I recognized the voice as belonging to Kiony, a young deckhand from a settlement on the coast of Cape Wrath. He was talking to a younger boy, Nav or Nev, I don't really recall. "How old was this sailor who told you the story?" I casually inquired as I walked toward the two.

"Captain!" Kiony quickly stood at attention, Nav or Nev followed suit, but I beckoned them to stand comfortably again right away. "He was... I don't know. Old. Really old. He was a Ghiscari, you know how they are. The amber complexion hides the years in their features, until white shrouds and wrinkles suddenly emerge over night and make it look like they're two-hundred years old." He laughed and lifted himself up onto a barrel. "That's how old the man was when he told me the story."

Though I couldn't vouch for the peculiar changes in aging Ghiscari, I nodded. Kiony had said enough to confirm my suspicion. "It likely happened before he was 'really old', if it is even true," I said with a knowing smile. "Yarn, too, changes when the events occured long ago."

Kiony exchanged a long glance with Nav or Nev, then their faces lightened up in realization. "He did say it happened on his first voyage," Kiony noted. "How did you know, captain?"

"Such a dramatic recount might be embellished to make for better entertainment in the taverns," I gave back. "I spent quite some time with old, bored sailors and their stories, and I have learned that only very few of them hold any truth. There haven't been any recent cases of Butterfly Fever. I would have heard about it while studying navigation in a city of sailors." I put a hand on Kiony's shoulder to reassure him. "I would not have set course for Naath if I thought it was something to worry about."

"Can we join the landing party?" Nav or Nev burst out, now looking excited. "This is _my_ first voyage! If there's no danger, please let me join, so I can craft my own stories about this great adventure!"

"Of course," I replied with a smile. "A good captain knows the value of a good story. Speak to Davyn, I believe he has room for two more men in his dinghy."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Moonlight danced upon the gentle waves by the coast, making it look as if our boats were floating on magic. Ahead of us, on a coastal hilltop, the ruins of the old Valyrian fort loomed. The black dragonstone walls almost merged with the night from the distance, and when we set foot on the sandy beach, they only appeared as a pitch-black absence of light against the star-spangled sky.

The Peaceful People of Naath awaited us by the foothills. They appeared like ethereal beings, dressed in colorful, shimmering silk and with warm golden eyes, and I felt strangely honored that they welcomed us to their mystical world so freely. A few of them spoke the Common Tongue, albeit broken and with a strong accent, and so I learned why they were not afraid of strangers approaching at night. "Naath has seen many invaders in the past," a woman in a flowing, red gown told me on our way to their village. "Ghiscari, Volantene, corsairs from every coast of the Summer Sea. What they all have in common is that they don't warn us of their arrival. They remain hidden and strike when we least expect an attack. A ship waiting for nightfall offshore in plain sight, however, heralds no danger. It signals the arrival of new friends and a rare chance for trade."

An exotic feast awaited us in the quaint, primitive village, a welcome change from the monotony of rationed food. I ate succulent fruits I had never seen before, I drank the sweetest nectars and wines in the world, and for once I didn't mind Gimor's overzealous dedication to duty. He had volunteered to remain on the ship while I conducted our business with the Naathi, and it suited me just fine that his dour mood didn't tarnish this merry night.

As it was a small village with only a dozen of huts, the quantity of the trade goods was limited. However, the quality easily made up for it and I found the merchandise well-worth the price. Yes, we'd have to ration our supplies for a little while longer, but we'd reach the Basilisk Isles and their many ports in less than a week. The Naathi woman had mentioned a settlement on the western shore of the Isle of Flies, a smuggler's den I presumed from her description. Where there were smugglers, there would be plenty of barrels and just as much greed. We'd be able to fill our cargo bays there with more rum than a seasoned crew could ever drink. The greatest worry was that smugglers would likely ask for much higher prices than the Naathi, but Lord Buntley had been generous when he calculated our expenses.

The golden glow of early sunlight already shrouded the island when I gave the order to gather at the beach and return to the ship. Though I had heard tales about the peaceful ways of the natives, I hadn't expected such hospitality and I had barely noticed the passage of time. A part of me wished I could stay, see the splendor of Naath in bright daylight, but our hosts urged me to leave just before dawn. The butterflies would soon flutter, they said, and the risk for foreigners was too great. I promised to keep this superstition alive when I said my farewell. The rumors of the terrible fever were the island's only defense, and I didn't wish to see its natives threatened by invaders. And so we rowed our boats back to the _Azure Tide_ while the eastern sun rose above Naath, a serene sightof exotic beauty we'd remember long after our departure.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

"Captain, please hurry, the men don't know what to do!" the voice of Dougal, my steward, jolted me out of my slumber. We were two days away from the Isle of Flies by my estimations, the sea had been calm since we departed from Naath, and I had therefore not expected any trouble or delays to our arrival. "It's Segan," Dougal went on, his voice trembling with panic. "Nobody dares approach him! He tore his cabin apart without warning, and his bunkmate barely got away unscatched!"

"Where is Gimor?" I sat up and rubbed my eyes while Dougal rushed over to bring me my boots and coat. "It's his duty to take care of disturbances while his captain gets some hard-earned sleep."

"I sent for him," Dougal assured me. "Though I don't believe he can help. He hasn't studied like you have, he wouldn't know what to do either," he then quickly added.

He was probably right, I realized while I put on my boots. Before his demotion, Gimor had spent eight years shipping cargo to the Summer Islands, followed by two years on ships sailing from Oldtown to Dorne. He hadn't seen as much of the world as he liked to think, and unusual situations out here might be well beyond his expertise.

 

Gimor was already waiting outside the barred door when Dougal led me to the cabin. He was engaged in a heated discussion with three other men, though I didn't hear what they were talking about. There were screams and moans coming from the other side of the door, taking turns with loud rumbling; perhaps furniture being knocked over or thrown. When Gimor spotted me, he quickly left the group and intercepted me a few steps down the hallway. "I warned you," he greeted me through gritted teeth. "You wouldn't listen, but I'll warn you again. And I hope and pray this time you will heed my advice." He made another step toward me, maybe to let me see the urgency in his eyes in the light cone of the dangling oil lamp, maybe to further block my way in the narrow path. "Don't open that door, captain. Leave it sealed, I beg you. We can't help this man, but we can try to contain the infection."

"What is wrong with Segan?" I certainly wouldn't make a decision without knowing what in the world was going on. "Are the supplies we bought on Naath spoiled? Do they carry any diseases?"

"It's not the supplies, captain." Gimor slightly shook his head and glanced over his shoulder, and I only noticed now how deadly pale my first mate was. "It is the Butterfly Fever. Three more men who went to the island are showing similar signs. Talhan, Bennard, and one of the ship boys." He nodded to the trio still standing by the barred door. "They reported it shortly before Segan's odd behavior drew attention, and fortunately had the wits to lock in their bunkmates as well."

For a long moment I only stared at him in confusion, but then I managed to gather my thoughts. "Are you certain it is not a common infection?" I inquired, trying to peer over his shoulder. "I agree that we should keep the infected confined, but I dislike the notion that there's nothing we can do."

"Segan is sweating blood and his skin is peeling off in large swaths," Gimor flatly gave back. "Have you ever heard of a common disease with such gruesome effects?" Taken aback by the candid description, I didn't answer and only shook my head. "If you allow me, I will proceed to scour the decks for other men who show signs of the early stages," Gimor continued. "We need to isolate anyone with a fever and strange spasms. If we act now, there might still be a chance to spare the rest of the crew."

"Go ahead," I said with a brief nod. "I'll expect to have a full report of your findings in the morning."

Relieved, Gimor acknowledged the order and hurried back to the three waiting men. "May the Mother have mercy on us," I heard him say before I, still shaken by the events, returned to my cabin.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

"A total of seven." Gimor paced up and down in front of my desk, never fully taking his reproachful glare off me. "Two have succumbed to the disease in the night and it seems unlikely the others will see the next morning."

"Is the infection contained then? I asked over the rim of my cup of sweet Naathi wine. "What further measures need to be taken to keep the crew safe?"

Gimor ceased his pacing and nodded with some hesitation. "All men have been accounted for and other than those seven, nobody showed signs of the affliction," he said. "Every suspicious behavior is to be reported at once, but for now there should be no more immediate danger." He lowered his eyes and finally stopped glaring at me. "I recommend keeping the cabins sealed off for at least two or three weeks. It is unknown if the blood contains any contagions, so we shouldn't take unneccessary risks before we clean the stains."

"Retrieve the dead bodies if you think it can be done safely," I gave back. "I'd rather give them a proper burial at sea, but if the risk is too great, leave them where they are. Then have the carpenters bar the doors." I finished my drink and got up from the chair. "Once this is done, we can put these unfortunate events behind us. The winds are favorable and should take us to the Isle of Flies within one or two days."


	3. Act III

The burial at sea had left me pensive. We had retrieved only three of the seven bodies from their cabins, Gimor had deemed it safe to enter since there was not a whole lot of blood. Martyn, one of the elder sailors, had died in the disease's early stages. His heart had given out from exhaustion before the bleeding set in. Lergon had gotten himself tangled up in sheets and a hammock during his wild spasmic dance, making it easy to drag him without touching the corpse. But it was not their faces, frozen in terror, that haunted my nights. It wasn't the four men we had left entombed in their cabins either, not Segan, Kiony, Bryce and Wenyd.

It was the boy.

Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw him before me. Sunken down in front of the bunk bed, only the crude noose made from his shirt holding him in an upright position. The discoloration of his skin, the stare of his empty, dead eyes. The desperate determination it must have taken to spare himself from the worst of the fever's effects.

"What was his name?" I asked before we cast the bodies into the ocean.

"Nav or Nev, I believe," someone answered from behind. "Nobody knew him too well, he spent most of his time with Kiony."

I mumbled when I said the prayer to the Seven, hoping they'd catch my meaning and bestow their mercy upon the right soul.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

We found the settlement on the Isle of Flies abandoned, only moldly planks of what had been a makeshift dock remained. Perhaps I had been too trusting toward friendly natives who so clearly meant us no harm. Evidently, their information was outdated and I cursed myself for not asking when they had last traded with this place. Once again, our supplies were dwingling, but by now the crew had gotten used to rationed rum and food.

We sent a boat to the island, hoping to find at least a few useful things left behind, but the landing party returned empty-handed. They reported an overpowering foul stench that got stronger the closer they rowed to the island, making it hard to breathe when they reached the shore. Flies the size of coins harrassed them as they searched the remains of the dock, the amorphous black swarms emerging from thickets were visible even from the distance. Our men were covered in insect bites and reddened rashes, with watering eyes and running noses, when they returned to the _Azure Tide_ , and it took them several days to recover enough to resume their daily duties.

The second port turned out to be little more than a rickety assembly of fishing huts, located on the northern shore of the Isle of Wails. A fisher who had to be a hundred years old parted with a tattered map in exchange for two jugs of Naathi wine. He barely spoke our language and the negotiations for this simple deal took longer than I liked, but in the end he agreed to mark the locations of recently sprung up smuggler's dens, and that was well-worth the time.

The island, mountainous and overgrown with thick jungles, was a glimpse of hope after our brief encounter with the putrid Isle of Flies. The humid heat was less pressing under the canopies of the trees, and the absence of buzzing insect swarms came as a welcome surprise. Shyras, the cook, asked for permission to gather herbs, roots and mushrooms, and I gladly granted it as the food had been monotonous and bland ever since it had to be rationed. The old fisherman took a hammock as payment for showing us the edible plants in the lighter parts of the jungle. Admittedly, I had been too trusting with the Naathi, but this man was too gruff, too greedy to raise my suspicions. He didn't try to lure us into a false sense of safety; despite the language barrier he was forthcoming with information, albeit for a price.

Only when evening came, we learned why the Isle of Wails was shunned by many sailors. In the dusky twilight the forest came alive with strange whispers, the wailing and moaning of a thousand lost souls. Though our guide assured us that it was only the wind howling in the mountains, the haunted murmurs sounded all too real and inhuman to stay any longer. With a decent yield of herbs and a handful of roots we rowed back to the _Azure Tide_ , chased by the eponymous wails from the foreboding jungles.

 

The nearest mark on our newly acquired map roused some discussion, as it was an offshore crag colloquially known as Fort Pus. Many small ports of the Basilisk Isles sprung up in the morning and were gone before moonlight fell upon them, but Fort Pus was as constant and solid as the rock it stood on. Though the occupants changed every once in a while, the fort was never abandoned, not even for one single day. There'd be people, there'd be supplies, it was as certain as the sun's rise in the east.

What made the possibility of stocking up there so controversial was the reason why Fort Pus maintained a constant presence of pirates and smugglers. Situated in the bay of Malady Reef, the fort overlooked and guarded the beach of the larger island. There were legends about the Red Death still haunting its jungles, the very disease that had eradicated the Basilisks' native population hundreds of years ago, during the Century of Blood. Even if the rumors were not true, Malady Reef was festering with poverty, misery and disease. The powerful pirate bands of Talon sent those inflicted with infectious diseases to the northwestern island, and people they found deserving of a fate worse than death. To keep the afflicted contained, they had agreed upon a truce long ago, and it had resulted in a surprisingly steady cooperation between otherwise quarreling groups. When it came to Malady Reef, even the most ruthless corsair kings set their differences aside and worked together to ensure the maintenance of their fort. They provided men, supplies and ships to patrol the shores of the island, making sure none of the diseased could hope to escape. Any raft or dinghy trying to leave Malady Reef was sunk by the nimble galleys, flying the fort's unified flag, black with a red skull screaming in agony to the sky.

The patrol ships were too small to take on a ship the size of the _Azure Tide_ , and according to heresay, their crews were always happy for distractions from their dreary assignment. However, after our brush with the Butterfly Fever, the proximity to a colony that housed every disease known to man was a strong enough deterrent to make us pass up on the supplies we could gain. And so we set course for Talon, the true destination of our journey, sailing along the coast of the Isle of Wails. With luck, we'd happen upon a lair the old man hadn't heard of, and if we didn't we'd just have to hold out two or three days longer. For once, Gimor and I were in agreement, and with a few reckless – or especially thirsty – exceptions, there were no complaints from the crew when we decreased the rations even further.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Barter Beach appeared as a center of civilization in the bleak, desolate seascape of the western islands. It was the most stalwart one of the pirate nests, changing its location only once every few years and never moving too far from Talon's largest dock. After our departure from the shores of Naath, we had only caught sight of a patrol ship from Fort Pus in the distance, otherwise it had seemed as if we were all alone in the Summer Sea for the past two or three weeks. Now we saw several ships anchored when we arrived, most of them smaller galleys of raiders, and it understandably sparked much excitement among my haggard crew.

The _Azure Tide_ was not the only ship that didn't sail under the flag of an outlaw band or corsair king. Some of my crewmen recognized two trade vessels from Meereen in the harbor. Slavers, perhaps hoping to strike bargains the Ghiscari cities didn't offer, or in search of exotic spectacles for the famed fighting pits. But however despicable their practices and intention may have been, their presence also meant relatively safety in this port. Pirates came here to trade, chiefly among their own kind, but they didn't turn away customers from far away shores either, and had no interest in attacking foreign ships.

The days of meager rations were soon little more than a distant memory of the past. The merchants here spoke the Trade Talk, some even conversed in the Common Tongue, albeit with strong accents, and we had no trouble to communicate what we needed. Our coins were as welcome as those of the slavers, and we filled our cargo bays with ease. While Gimor handled the business transactions and had the newly acquired supplies brought to our ship, I took in the sights and marvels of the sprawling markets of Barter Beach.

 

Merchants peddled everything one could imagine and more, from exotic spices and potions to the finest drinks in the world. Some scents wafting from the makeshift awnings were strong, unfamiliar and pungent in the humid heat, others were pleasant and tempting. Gruff fellows had dressed up as merchants in mismatched attire and tried to sell me barrels, sometimes even shiploads, of exotic delicacies. Saffron from Qarth, persimmons from the Free Cities, sesame seeds and black peppers from the distant shores of Yi-Ti. The atmosphere on Barter Beach was so vibrant and blithe, I almost forgot every last thing here had been stolen from ships that returned to their native ports after long, dangerous journeys.

The market district located close to the shore offered practical wares; linen and timber, tools and ropes were displayed, and a vendor touted his selection of sails in all sizes and colors. In another area I saw guarded shacks and fenced stages, and most of the Meereenese were gathered here in small groups. Once I realized that this was where slave auctions were held, I kept a distance and didn't venture further in this direction, though I admit my curiosity had been piqued. I had heard tales about the fighting pits of Meereen, and many a stranded sailor in the taverns of Oldtown had made the fights out to be the greatest spectacle he had ever beheld. Of course, most of these stories were wildly exaggerated, but knowing this only made me more curious to catch a glimpse of the truth. While absently browsing bales of cloth, silk and velvet, I stole glances to an incipient auction on a nearby stage. However, apparently only domestic slaves were on offer, and the sight of a potential pit fighter wasn't granted to me.

The bustle didn't diminish when evening came, but I felt overwhelmed by the new impressions. We no longer had to worry about rations and fading supplies, and it was time to turn our attention to the investigation we had been tasked with by Lord Buntley. Maester Jeraume had shipped several pieces of artwork to Oldtown from Talon, yet I had not seen paintings, tapestries or statues for sale. If there were art connoisseurs here, they kept their business well-hidden, but I was determined to discover their dwellings. And so I gathered a small party of men and went where tongues were loosened and secrets were spilled.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The 'Wicked Wench', a tavern housed in the belly of a derelict ship by the beach, was more spacious than it looked from the outside. Compartment walls had been removed and cabins had been connected, and instead of ladders a flight of winding stairs led to the upper deck. The remodelling there had been less extensive At least the structure of separate cabins had been maintained as most of the deck was taken up by Barter Beach's largest brothel. What used to be the captain's quarter was now the private room of the brothel's madame, a swarthy woman who had squeezed her voluminous body into a bright green Qartheen gown.

After seeing the surprisingly luxuriant decorations on this deck, I asked my companion if she could arrange an audience, and I was promptly denied. "Madame Nyagai dislikes nosy strangers," she told me while I put on my clothes. "If you have no pretty girls to sell, you won't be received." It didn't deter me from my plan, however, the madame's door was closed when I left the concubine's cabin. Left and right stood two guards, each of them the size of a bear, their skin brindled with strange patterns, and neither looked particularly willing to listen to my request.

I went downstairs to the common room that occupied what had once been the cargo deck of the ship. Only two sailors of my party had already returned there, but there's one a thing a wealthy man never lacks in a tavern: company. And so I soon found myself surrounded by a group of sailors, far from sober, in high spirits and more eager to share information than the women upstairs.

 

The chattiest new 'best friend' I had made that evening was Niqhal, the bosun of a ship that roamed the Gulf of Grief, hunting trade vessels bound for the ports of Slaver's Bay. He claimed to be the son of a famed Mounted Guard from Astapor, but I had my doubts about this story. The stained red head wrap covered his hair and a scrubby black beard obscured his features, but neither could fully hide a complexion too light for an Astapori noble. I humored him though, expressed admiration for the choice to break with tradition and forge his own path, away from the watchful eye of his revered father.

"No, no, put those coins back!" Niqhal slapped away Davyn's hand just when it was about to drop some more coins in the bowl with our wagers. "Put that in there." He pointed to the buttons on Davyn's vest, then nodded to his companion, a brindled man the size of a horse.

"What?" Davyn looked down on himself as if there was any doubt what Niqhal meant.

"Cut off the buttons and put them in the bowl," Niqhal slowly repeated. "I like this tavern, I don't want to see it destroyed yet again."

I studied the brindled man, apparently aptly nicknamed 'Button' by his crewmates, while pretending to consider the cards in my hand. Button hadn't said a word since the game had started, except for a few incoherent grunts when he wanted more rum. He certainly didn't give the impression of a man gifted with wit, but he had been introduced as the crew's treasurer shortly after they had joined our table.

"And I don't want to see my only vest rendered useless." Davyn put his cards down and crossed his arms to cover his chest and the buttons in question. "I thought you're broke and in dire need of money to buy supplies for your next raid! Buttons aren't going to pay for fresh water and cured meat."

Niqhal rolled his eyes, or more accurately the left one, as the right one was lazy and made it hard to tell where he was looking. "Aye, we need money," he confirmed and annoyed sigh followed. "Button is too dumb to piss in a bucket, but he's good with games of chance. Unless a miracle happens and somebody buys the cursed carrack we seized, he's our best bet to win us the money. He likes coins just fine, but he likes buttons much more. Makes him angry if he doesn't get what he wants, so there better be some buttons in that bowl by the end of the night."

"Put some buttons in that bowl," I told Davyn. "That's an order." I grabbed the jug of rum and refilled Niqhal's mug, then my own. "We're looking for friends here, for information, not for trouble. I'm sure we can find a new vest for you on the market tomorrow."

Davyn grunted something unintelligible into his beard, but he pulled out his dagger and cut off two of the buttons from his vest. The eyes of the enormous treasurer lit up as these treasures were added to the wagers, Niqhal relaxed and reached for his mug. "Information, you say?" he casually inquired. "Perhaps your new friends can aid you in that regard. What are you looking for? The Basilisks have been my home for twenty years, there's nothing I can't find for you here." He took another swig from his rum and nodded to Button. "Even been to the ruins of Zamettar once or twice to trade with his people. Not worth the trouble if you ask me, but it still makes for a good tale. And some collectors like the furs of strange beasts the Brindled Men hunt."

"We're looking for a man," I prevented him from telling yet another half-remembered story about a long past voyage. "A Westerosi maester and artist, older than me, thin ash blond hair, named Jeraume."

Niqhal shot me an incredulous glance, then he burst out in laughter and Button chimed in, though I didn't get the impression he really knew why. "An artist, here?" Niqhal took a deep breath to regain his composure. "I'm afraid that's something not even I can find for you. There are no artists here. We don't need them! If we want art, we simply seize a ship from the Free Cities. Those captains, I tell you, their cabins have it all. Carpets, tapestries, fancy curtains, it's a miracle they still have room for their cargo!"

"I'm not looking for artwork," I corrected. "I was tasked with finding the man who made it. A number of sculptures for a collector, my employer, in Oldtown. The last shipment he received came from Talon, and Maester Jeraume named the Basilisks as the destination of his last voyage. He came here for a particular kind of stone, 'Valyrian Marble' he called it."

Niqhal studied me for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether I was serious about my request or just pulling his leg. "Put those coins back in," he then turned to Davyn and pushed the bowl with our wagers closer to him.

"Frankly, I'm having my doubts if I came to the right place," I quickly added. Niqhal's expression said he knew something, it was only a matter of convincing him that it was worth his while to share it with me. "I've been scouring the markets all day in search of stone carvings and merchants dabbling in artwork, and haven't found either. However, I saw treasure troves overflowing with elaborate decor upstairs, each of the girls has a room fit for a queen. Somebody must have sold it all to Madame Nyagai, but my girl insisted I wouldn't be granted an audience to ask for a name."

"The madame doesn't receive strangers," Niqhal gave back, absently looking back and forth between his cards and the bowl on the table. "She consorts with corsair kings and trusted suppliers. Takes years to build a reputation that will open her door for you." He paused when I reached for my purse, took a handful of coins and added a considerable sum to the wager. "My captain met her once, and only once, four years ago," Niqhal continued. "Sold her a shipment of red wine from Volantis, and some barrels of beets. Don't think she'd receive him again though, even if he was stricken with a fever. Terrible summer storms ravaged the sea back then, not many ships reached this port. The madame had to make an exception and deal with us small fish to keep her business going."

He still hadn't made up his mind about my inquiry, I could see it in his good left eye, but all he needed was a little nudge in the right direction. I gestured for Davyn's dagger, then carefully cut off the golden buttons from the sleeves of my coat. Button's enthralled glare followed them as I dropped the precious loot into the bowl, and surprise flashed on Niqhal's face when I folded my hand. "Luck doesn't appear to be on our side tonight," I said, looking to Davyn, prompting him to drop his cards with a resigned sigh.

"However..." Niqhal not so subtly pushed his empty mug toward me. "You don't need to speak to Madame Nyagai to learn the names of her suppliers. I might know a few men who sail with the Pale Harpy, the corsair king of Port Plunder, not far from here on the northeastern shore." He leaned back, stretched his back and let his gaze sweep the tavern. "It's possible I spotted one or two of these men here today. Can't say for certain, but if there was some good rum on the table it might attract their attention. If they are indeed here..."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Damodhor Zhu looked even more imposing than Button, and he sure had the manners to match. While not quite as tall or bulky as the Sothoryi, I didn't doubt that the self-proclaimed 'Menace of the Indigo Straits' could take the tavern apart all by himself. His ebony skin was painted with strange, white patterns, he drank for three, and he exposed sharp, filed fangs whenever he laughed. He spoke with a thick Summer accent, almost hissing at times, but he was in high spirits and that made him more talkative than Niqhal had expected. Apparently his captain, the infamous Ghiscari they called the Pale Harpy, had seized an Ibbenese whaling ship and dispatched Damodhor to get rum and whores for the celebration of this grand prize.

"Westerners don't last long on these isles," Damodhor told me between the third and fourth jug of rum I had treated him to. "If someone took him hostage and the ransom still hasn't been paid a year later, I'd be very surprised if you'd find your man alive now."

"No ransom has been demanded," I gave back. "Instead a shipment, a breathtaking statue, was delivered to his benefactor, the same man who tasked me with finding the artist. His wealth is well-known, he would have been an easy target for extortion. That no demands were made, and that the statue was sent to Oldtown, leads me to believe Jeraume was not held here against his will. I believe..."

"Jeraume?" Little white flakes of chalk paint fluttered from his forehead when Damodhor's brow furrowed in thought. There was a spark of recognition in his eyes, he was trying to put a face to the name and he succeeded. "I remember him," he finally said. "Didn't know where he hailed from, I took him for a Lyseni. Hard to tell you pale folks apart." He took a swig straight from the jug, then slammed it back on the table. "He's had dealings with the Pale Harpy in the past, even stayed as a guest in the Maw for months at a time. Not recently though, come to think, but the captain might know where your artist friend went."

"Would it be possible to speak to him?" I bluntly inquired. The hour was late and by now I was inebriated enough to not fear repercussions. "As I said, my employer is rather generous. I'd certainly make it worth your captain's while."

"I don't see why not." Damodhor emptied the jug and got up from his chair. "If you're ready to embark tomorrow, I'll let you trail my ship and lead you to the Maw. But now I have to take care of business, Madame Nyagai is waiting." He was about to leave and head for the stairs, but he paused when he noticed Button's reproachful glare. With a resigned sigh, Damodhor reached for his necklace, a collection of seashells, gemstones, teeth of men and beasts, and plucked a large, round button from it. He placed it on the table in front of Button, grabbed the remaining jug of rum and turned to leave. "Meet me at the docks in the morning," he said, then staggered toward the winding stairs through the crowd. 


	4. Act IV

The Maw lay in a hidden bay, sheltered from the wind by the rocky overhang that extended out over the beach like the canopy of enormous stony trees. From the distance it was easy to see how the hideout had gotten its name, it resembled the maw of a giant wyvern or snake, and the beast devoured our boats one by one as we rowed to the shore.

When I set foot on the rocky beach, Damodhor was already waiting there. His men unloaded barrels from their dinghies, others ushered whores from Madame Nyagai's brothel toward the mouth of a cavern. To my surprise, most of them seemed to be in high spirits, but once my party was led into the Pale Harpy's fortress I began to see why. The stairs carved into the dark rock were covered with fancy carpets. Every nook and cranny held statues, vases and other valuable trinkets. Heavy curtains of velvet and lace were attached to the stone walls in random spots as mere displays of wealth, only few of them hid the entrances to smaller tunnels.

The Pale Harpy's 'throne room', a large, open terrace overlooking the lower levels of the fortress, was overflowing with riches beyond anything I had ever seen. Not even Lord Buntley's collection could rival the splendor. For every rare piece his gallery housed, the Pale Harpy had two or three, strewn about without care amidst a celebration of drunk pirates and half-naked whores. Shanties were bawled, people were dancing and raising golden cups to roared toasts, tables were almost bursting under the weight of platters and bowls of the feast. Unlike on Barter Beach, where clean water cost as much as rare spirits, there was no price attached to anything here.

"Wait for me by that curtain." Damodhor shoved a small wooden bowl filled with coins of all shapes and sizes into the hands of the whore in his arm. "And get us some of that pigling, I'd hate to miss out." The girl quickly stored the coins away by pouring them into a purse she then hid under her skirt, then she hurried away toward the nearest table. "Through here," Damodhor turned back to me and pulled open a heavy curtain to his right. "You'll find the captain in his lair at the end of the hallway."

"You're not going to make introductions?" I asked, but Damodhor was already almost out of earshot. Hearing my question he paused and turned around to shot me an annoyed glare.

"You've got a perfectly good mouth of your own," he grunted. "If you want to talk to the captain, go ahead. I've got better things to do than act as your mouthpiece." He exposed his filed teeth in a grin when the whore returned to his side, carrying a silver platter with slices of roast and a carafe of red wine. "Word of advice, landlubber," Damodhor added, still glaring at me. "Don't go empty-handed. If you want to make a good first impression, take someone prettier than you to please the Pale Harpy's eye."

"We should leave while we can," Gimor whispered to me, looking around with unveiled contempt in his eyes. "Once this celebration is over and they are no longer distracted, they'll turn their eyes towards the _Azure Tide_ in their bay. They won't idly watch as we sail away with our supplies and a well-equipped ship."

I stared at him in disbelief for a moment. He couldn't be serious about wanting to leave now, could he? We had a lead on Jeraume, a better one than I had ever expected to find. Why in the world would we abandon our search when we had come so close already? "Does it look like they're short on supplies to you?" I inquired. "Our business with the Pale Harpy won't take long. They'll still be feasting and dancing when I have the information we need." I sighed with annoyance when Gimor didn't react. "Fine, take some of the men and ready the ship if you must. But you'll let them know that this was your idea, that you're the one depriving them of their well-earned relaxation."

Once he had left and I was alone with Davyn and Shyras, I let my gaze wander with Damodhor's advice in mind. I spotted Yemala, my acquaintance from Madame Nyagai's brothel, a short distance away. She was certainly prettier than me and my two companions, so I waved her over to take her along.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

We had come to the right place, I knew it the moment we entered the Pale Harpy's lair. The large cavern was filled with all sorts of plunder; barrels overflowing with jewelry and coins, paintings and tapestries carelessly stacked against the rough walls, an inordinate amount of exotic weapons, some displayed on shelves or tables, others just lying about on the floor. But what caught my eye were neither these treasures nor their owner, a stocky Ghiscari man of indeterminate age. Behind his seat, an upholstered armchair decorated with curtains in an attempt to resemble a throne, stood a line of shimmering statues.

No doubt, they were carved from the mysterious stone Maester Jeraume had discovered, and they resembled the sculpture Lord Buntley possessed in style. Each portrayed a beautiful woman in an intricate gown, though their attire varied in fashion. One statue wore a flowing robe, the same style I had seen among the natives of Naath, another was shown in a tokar, a symbol of status and wealth worn in the Ghiscari cities.

Had Jeraume honed his skill here before sending his final masterpiece to Oldtown? Were those statues not his work, after all? Perhaps the Pale Harpy had seized a ship transporting a wealthy collector's possessions, and Jeraume had merely purchased the pieces the captain would part with. There were other, smaller carvings strewn about in this lair I realized when I looked closer. The marble shape of an enormous blanketfish served the captain as footrest, one of the whores on his lap wore nothing but a necklace made of marble shells and starfish.

 

As promising as the night had begun as disappointed I was to not receive any clear answers. After a brief introduction and explaining why I had sought him out, I already lost the Pale Harpy's attention to Yemala. Yes, this Jeraume had visited Talon, and yes, he had talked a lot about art, the captain told me with overt boredom. A few months ago, however, Jeraume purchased a map and left the island in search of the source of this apparently precious stone. At this point, the captain rummaged around among the velvet curtains obscuring his chair, and produced what was unmistakably the chain of a maester. "Paid me this for the map," he said with a shrug. "Doubt it's worth much, but neither were the charts Jeraume wanted."

"I will pay you more if you can replicate those charts," I boldly offered. "Any hint regarding Jeraume's whereabouts is of value to me, so I'll be certain to make the effort worth your while."

"No need." The Pale Harpy laughed, exposing black stumps of teeth. "Maps of that area are hardly a rare commodity. Every would-be captain attemps to chart these waters at some point in his life." He glared to the tunnel leading to the main hall, suggesting that our conversation had come to an end. "Talk to Ganesh," he added. "Short, skinny, about twelve years of age. You'll probably find him in the kitchen. He's got a collection of trinkets nobody else wants or needs. Might trade you one of those charts for something better."

 

We asked our way through the crowd in the main hall, at first with little success. Most of the pirates were drunk out of their minds at this hour and barely listened when we asked for the way to the kitchen. They pointed to the nearest table with food, recommended we try certain dishes or simply shoved us away. Shyras finally spotted a man who looked somewhat sober, hidden behind a stack of barrels, eating scraps from almost empty trays.

"Ganesh?" He studied me with old, tired eyes for a moment, then apparently decided I posed no threat and relaxed. "In the slave pen, it's this way, through the kitchen and down the stairs in the corner." He hastily shoved a leftover slice roast into his mouth and glanced around, fearing to be observed by the pirates, I surmised. "I can show you," he added, still chewing. "The caverns are dark and narrow down there. It will be safer if you follow a guide."

"Lead the way," I gave back. "We're glad for any assistance you can offer."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The sight of the slave pens shocked me more than I had expected. Upstairs the whores from Barter Beach mingled with pirates and were spoiled with generous payment and the indulgences of the feast. Down here nobody was merry. Swarthy men, some born this way, some darkened by the Summer Sea's sun, sat in recesses along a barely lit tunnel, ate scraps from dirty trays or listlessly moved pebbles on crudely drawn lines on the floor. Some woke to life when we passed by, jumped up to guard a stack of meager possessions or merely eyed us with suspicion from head to toe.

"Ganesh?" Our guide peered around a corner at the end of the hallway, and a moment later a young boy emerged. "These men were sent by the Pale Harpy. Say they have business with you." The old man turned back to us and waved us closer. "That's him, that's Ganesh," he hastily muttered. "I must hurry back to the kitchen before anyone takes note of my absence."

"Thank you." I glanced to Davyn and nodded to the bowl of figs in his hand. "Take this to the kitchen, my friend is no longer hungry," I said. The old man's eyes lit up when Davyn reluctantly gave him the bowl, the few figs left in it were a reward he hadn't expected, then he hurried away. "You are Ganesh?" I turned to the boy. "The Pale Harpy said you may have something I need. Sea charts, the same another man from my homeland bought from him."

Ganesh listened as I explained my reasons, but his features darkened when I mentioned Jeraume's name. "Jeraume, I know him," the boy said. "He was a friend of my mother. Brought us food and sometimes new clothes on his visits." He sighed and beckoned me to follow him around the corner, to a dead end of the tunnel that apparently served as his den. "I wish he had never bought those forsaken charts."

"I'm determined to find out where he went," I said. "Why he never returned from his mysterious destination. If I find him, he might come to visit again." My gaze wandered over the miserable lair in the tunnel, a tattered blanket, a metal bowl, a small chest with a broken lock dangling on it. "I'll pay any price you demand for these charts. Food, clothes, coins, or..."

The boy had knelt down in front of his chest and was about to open it, but now he looked up. "There's just one thing I want," he said with an air of defiance. "I want what Jeraume promised my mother before he left for good. He said he'd come back for us after this journey, that his discovery would make him rich enough to buy our freedom and take us to the castle where he lived."

My brow furrowed upon hearing that. "Jeraume didn't live in a castle," I said after brief consideration. "He lived in the Citadel, a place of study. Your mother can't go there, women are not permitted within these walls."

Ganesh opened his chest and revealed a collection of trinkets, rolled-up charts, seashells, carved figurines and other deadwood. "My mother can't go anywhere anymore," he said, now sounding sad and resigned. "I have not seen her since Jeraume disappeared. Some people say she went with him, but I know she wouldn't have left me behind." He rummaged around in his collection of plunder and finally pulled out a handful of scrolls. "The charts," he said, holding them out to me. "Haegon says they're mostly the same, only small details differ on each. He used to be a captain, he must know."

I hesitated before I took the scrolls for inspection, but in the end my curiosity won. No matter the price, I had to unravel the mystery that surrounded Jeraume. If it meant purchasing a slave, so be it, I thought. I would not own him the way nobles owned slaves in the Free Cities, I'd pay for his freedom and that was hardly a crime. "One of my ship boys passed away during the journey," I said. "I suppose if I can agree on a price with the Pale Harpy, you can take his place."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The Pale Harpy questioned my wits when I told him I wanted to buy the boy instead of the charts, but it also amused him. "You westerners are a hilarious people! Your gods condemn this and that, but once you're far from home, those 'sins' are forgotten and you indulge just like us!" His remark left a sour taste in my mouth, but I didn't complain. The price he stated was less than what I had paid for the company in Madame Nyagai's brothel, and the honor of the Seven was not worth the risk to change his mind.

"Take this to Gimor," I told Shyras once the business was concluded and I handed him my new ship boy's charts. "We'll set course for the Valyrian coast tomorrow. I want the _Azure Tide_ to be ready to embark in the morning."

Davyn and I took Ganesh to the feast. The boy hadn't had a real meal in several days, as the pirates had not paid much attention to the slaves during their celebration. While we ate he told me more about Jeraume's visits. How the maester had taught him and his mother some of the Common Tongue, what he had thought awaited them in Jeraume's supposed castle. I did my best to clear up the misunderstandings which I suspected stemmed from not sharing a language. He listened with great interest to my descriptions of Oldtown; the Starry Sept, the Hightower, the Citadel, the Honeywine and the many taverns and inns on its banks. "I have never been to a city like that," Ganesh said. "I was very little when my mother was taken from Yunkai. I only remember the pyramids, and I don't know if I picture them right."

The longer we spoke, the more suspicious I grew of Jeraume's motives. He had apparently spent much time on Talon, yet Ganesh didn't mention that the maester had worked on sculptures or carvings. The only thing that tied Jeraume to the artwork in Lord Buntley's manse was the Dornish fox. "Jeraume said these beasts can be tamed," Ganesh told me. "I fed it with scraps from the kitchen for weeks, but it would never let me pet it, nor did it come to me when I called its name." He shrugged and took another date from the platter on our table. "I suppose Jeraume meant well, but I wasn't too sad when the fox ran away."

I had seen the thick jungles of the Basilisk Isles, the putrid lakes festering with insect larvae and disease. A desert fox had probably not made it far in this climate, and I was relieved the boy didn't care too much about the demise of his pet. However, the recount made me wonder why Jeraume, an accomplished scholar, had taken the beast here in the first place. He must have known it was hardly worth the effort, and he could have modelled the sculpture after a painting or notes from a tome.

"An unlikely pair, a corsair king and a foreign scholar..." I picked up the subject of Jeraume's disappearance. "Yet it seems they got along well and shared a passion for art. Has the captain never wondered what became of his friend, why he stopped to visit?"

"He thinks Jeraume found this stone he was seeking," Ganesh replied. "Says he's probably still there, studying it, or just stuck on a coast most ships avoid for its dangers." He drank a swig from his mug and surveyed the plates, then reached for a piece of crusted roast. "Haegon went there once, that's where he was captured."

"We'll be more careful," I promised. "But if Jeraume is indeed still there, we must find him."

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When we returned to the beach in the late hours of morning, I couldn't believe my eyes. The _Azure Tide_ had been the largest ship in the bay, it was impossible to overlook her in the bay. Yet she was gone. Only two dozen of my crewmen lounged about by the dock, surrounded by some sacks and barrels I recognized as our provisions. "We tried to stop him," Dougal welcomed my party with an uneasy look on his face. "But most of the men agreed with Gimor. He said it was insanity to sail so close to the Smoking Sea, that you had lost your mind and would steer the ship towards certain doom."

After the first disbelief had worn off, anger boiled up in my veins. That coward had taken off in the night, had not even dared to confront me about my supposed transgressions. But I would not let him have the triumph he dreamt of, would not allow his cowardice to be proven the right course of action. I still had a about thirty men, I still had the purse with Lord Buntley's stipend, and I now had more determination than ever. What I did not have, however, were the charts, but it would certainly not stop me from pursuing my goal. I turned on my heel and beckoned Ganesh to follow me when I purposefully walked back to the entrance of the Pale Harpy's fortress.

 

"If you want me to hunt down these cowards, it will cost you." The captain, shirtless and displaying an impressive collection of scars on his stomach and chest, arose from his throne and wandered toward a table stacked with leftovers of the last night's feast. "Won't be cheap either," he added while lifting one jug after another, searching for one that still held some wine. "Unless there's some treasure you haven't told me about on that ship, it's hardly worth the pursuit for me." He found a jug and took a swig straight from it, then looked back to me, awaiting my answer.

"That is not what I had in mind," I firmly gave back. "I still intend to complete my mission, and a crew infected by cowardice won't aid me in this." I nodded to Ganesh who stood next to me, taking in the sights of the Pale Harpy's treasures with wide eyes. "No, I need a crew better suited to the dangers ahead. The boy mentioned a man who once sailed the Gulf of Grief, Haegon, I believe. I want him, I want passage to Barter Beach, and I'll pay for both."

The Pale Harpy paused and studied me for a moment, then he took another swig from his jug. "Passage to Barter Beach, you're in luck. Damodhor will take the girls back to Madame Nyagai today, there'll be room for what's left of your crew on his ship." He put the jug down and wandered back to his throne, now with a thoughtful, perhaps even puzzled expression. "However, I don't have a Haegon in my crew, so I'm afraid you'll have to find a navigator somewhere else."

"He's a captive, not one of your raiders," I explained. "My dastardly first mate took the charts with him. Haegon has seen them and he knows these waters from past voyages."

The captain's puzzlement shifted into mild amusement. "More sinful business then?" he said as he slumped down on his throne. "Not many seek to buy men. Sometimes I even forget I sell them!" He guffawed and gestured to one of his guards. "But unexpected business is still welcome business! Go find this Haegon! And bring more rum, so my new friend and I can toast to our blossoming business relation!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WORLD PREMIERE! No, really, I tried to find a depiction of a Brindled Man and apparently none exist. So I asked [RuffedLemur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuffedLemur) to draw Button. Here it is, the first Brindled Man fanart ever, based on my description "idk, kinda like HOMM 5 orcs, but with reverse-hyena colors, and make it look Disney": [Picture Postcards from Planetos - Illustrated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392232/chapters/46145962)


	5. Act V

Button had meticulously counted the payment for the carrack; most of what was left of Lord Buntley's stipend and every button my diminished crew had to spare. The remaining coins filled the cargo bay with food and barrels of water, and I took a mischievous pleasure in knowing Gimor's dastardly betrayal would not prevent me from pursuing my goal. Haegon, the old man who had led me to the slave pens in the Pale Harpy's fortress, had taken Gimor's place as my first mate. Though his incoherent muttering concerned me at first, the purchase of sea charts on Barter Beach's markets changed my mind. As the Pale Harpy had said, charts like these were easy to come by, and Haegon's memories of his past life as a captain seemed to reemerge the longer he studied the scrolls.

"The place I saw marked on Ganesh's map was not Oros," Haegon said when he visited me in my cabin. "It was a small village in the mountainous region on the eastern shore." He placed a chart on my desk to show me the location, and I laughed out loud.

"So our course does not lead through the Smoking Sea," I explained my amusement. "Gimor betrayed me because he can't properly read the charts."

Haegon looked puzzled, but he nodded. "Of course we won't have to cross the Smoking Sea," he gave back. "The Pale Harpy may be ruthless and daring, but he would not maintain a trade route through such dangerous waters for so little gain."

"A trade route?" I looked up from the map, it was now my turn to be puzzled. "The Pale Harpy frequently trades with this place?"

"Wouldn't call it 'frequent'," Haegon said. "But yes, his ships sailed there more than once."

"Did they bring back sculptures, by any chance?" I inquired. "Is this the source of the 'Valyrian Marble' the man we seek claims to have found? Are the villagers the true artists behind the work he passed off as his own?"

Haegon shrugged and brushed the stringy, silvery hair out of his face. "I wouldn't know, I spent the past twenty years in a kitchen and in pens underground. Ask the boy. His mother was one of the Pale Harpy's lovers, she might have told her son about new treasures in his lair."

 

I spoke to Ganesh later that day, and what he told me painted a foreboding picture. It appeared my suspicions were right, the sculptures had not been made by Jeraume. He had purchased them. Trinkets at first, small things he had seen in the fortress, and it had amused the Pale Harpy that somebody paid for what he thought of as worthless bycatch. After a while, Jeraume had asked for specific shapes and offered higher sums, high enough to make the pirates consider it a worthwhile business. And so they had delivered the requested carvings, had bought or stolen them from the true artists, the natives of the nameless village on the Valyrian coast.

However, this was not the part that concerned me. It was the description Ganesh gave of his mother. I didn't let on that I recognized every detail, every feature, that I had seen it everything he mentioned with my own eyes. Doubtlessly, the centerpiece of Lord Buntley's prized collection depicted Ganesh's mother, and Haegon's earlier words were still fresh in my mind. She had been the Pale Harpy's lover, yet the statue had turned up in a gallery on the other end of the world. Had the captain sent the piece to Oldtown after finding out about Jeraume's peculiar 'friendship' with his woman? Had she really run away with him, and the captain didn't want to keep a reminder of this treachous affair in his fortress? If this was true, I certainly would not find Jeraume alive at our destination. The Pale Harpy was not a man one should cross, that much was clear despite his friendly demeanor.

But why had he sent me on my way? Why was he so forthcoming with information, why did he aid me in my quest? The longer I thought about it, the more obvious it became. The Pale Harpy sought to replace his former friend and business partner. This was how Jeraume had become friends with him, wasn't it? He had paid generously for statues and carvings that didn't cost the pirates very much. Now a second man from western shores had shown up, had named the same wealthy employer. A shrewd corsair king wouldn't pass up on the chance to keep this easy and lucrative business going. It was unlikely I'd find Jeraume, but perhaps I would indeed find the source of the 'Valyrian Marble'. And if my inkling about the Pale Harpy was right, I would realize the hassle it was to get there myself, would return to Talon and negotiate terms with the middleman. It would be up to me to decide what report I'd give to Lord Buntley, whether I'd mention the shadier parts of this business Jeraume had withheld. I didn't have his renown as an artist, I couldn't make the same claims that the sculptures were my own work. But native art from a distant place was surely not worthless, and Lord Buntley knew other, equally wealthy collectors. It might be a worthwhile endeavor for all parties involved even without a famed artist lending his name.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Stone dragons, tall as castles, rose before us when we sailed along the coast of Valyria's easternmost island, split off from the mainland during the cataclysm known as the Doom. Old maps showed a dragon road connecting the ruins to the capital of the once great, fabled Valyrian Freehold, but all we could see were weather-worn statues protruding from overgrown wildlands and rugged cliffs.

"Never thought I'd see another dragon again," I heard Haegon mutter as we stared in awe to the remains of what must once have been a marvelous city. But as breathtaking as the sight of these monuments was, I couldn't help but notice something that gave me pause.

Perhaps it was the red tint in the light from the murky, overcast sky. Perhaps the ravages of time had stripped away too much of the city's former glory. Perhaps nature had reclaimed the stone the dragons had been carved from. Or perhaps the statues Jeraume had delivered to Oldtown had undergone some sort of process that changed the material's coloration and grain. Whichever it was, the Valyrian ruins did not resemble the pieces of art I had seen. If the 'Valyrian Marble' did truly originate here and possessed the described qualities that made it so suited for carvings, would the Valyrians not have crafted their own monuments from it?

I brushed it off as a trick of the eye in the end. After all, I had only seen the ruins from the relative distance of the ship. Mosses, lichen, the salty winds of the sea; any and all of these things could account for the variance. It was even possible that the stone used for the sculptures was so rare that there simply had not been enough to craft these enormous depictions of dragons.

Our journey took us up further north, along the ravaged landscape of the Valyrian coast. Though the rusty shade of the sky felt ominous and foreboding, the winds were firmly on our side and we navigated the Gulf of Grief with greater ease than I had expected. Gimor's concerns had not only been unfounded, they had been outright ludicrous in hindsight. There were no dangers here, no treacherous currents, no hidden shoals, and we didn't see hints of mysterious beasts on the small, fractured islets.

 

The greatest difficulty we encountered was found in the bay Haegon had identified as our destination. Steep mountain ranges rose from the banks of the inlet, ragged dark cliffs that surrounded the sea like the curtain walls of a cyclopean castle. We sailed in their shadow for three or four days before Davyn finally sighted an incline from the crow's nest. The stone beach looked desolate and lacked vegetation, and the shallow waters were riddled with sharp, rocky outcroppings. Still, there were signs of life in the distance. I spotted a rickety hut by the foothills, perhaps the home of a fisher, and there was a crude raft swaying in the surf.

"Cast anchor here," I told Davyn. "We can't risk taking the ship further into this bay." He acknowledged the order with a brief nod, and I turned to Dougal. "Ready the dinghy. This hut can't be far from the village. I'll lead a small scouting party myself, we don't want to scare the natives with a large group. Once they've seen our peaceful intentions they might be willing to trade."

The carrack, which we had named _Dragon's Dream_ on Haegon's suggestion, did not carry any valuable cargo compared to the state-of-the-art _Azure Tide_. However, a village so remote from civilization might be interested in more practical goods, I thought; clean water, foodstuffs or carpentry tools. All I needed was a piece of undressed 'Valyrian Marble', evidence that I had truly uncovered its source.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

Before the Doom the Valyrians had called it the Lands of the Long Summer, but now it was hard to imagine this region had once been fertile and green. Despite the proximity to the shore the air we breathed was hot and dry and burned in our lungs, and the terrain under our feet was bleak and barren. The march through the rugged hillscape was laborious and exhausting, but we had found a trampled trail that we hoped would lead us in the right direction. I can't say for how long we walked, but it must have been several hours. The overcast sky hadn't changed since our arrival and shrouded the mountain pass in murky twilight, perpetually trapping it between night and day.

It was in the evening, after darkness had finally fallen, when our tenacity was finally rewarded. In the bizarre light of a sanguine, gibbous moon we spotted the outlines of several huts on a plateau, overlooking a seemingly endless valley to the west. Though we could hear the faint sounds of distant drums, the village made an entirely deserted impression. There were no fires, no movements, no voices, only the muffled, monotonous beat of an unseen drummer from somewhere higher up in the barren mountains.

"We'll make camp here and approach in the morning," I said. "Entering their village without invitation would make us seem hostile to the natives, so we should wait for them to return to their dwellings." Though the men were exhausted and the campsite offered no comforts, my order was not met with any protest. Nobody wanted to say out loud what we thought, but I'm certain we all shared the same uneasy feeling. "What we are hearing are not war drums," I pondered out loud, trying to make the situation less unsettling with an innocous surmise. "It is probably a ceremony to celebrate a birth or a wedding, and foreigners like us would not be welcome there. If we are hoping to trade with the natives, we must respect their customs and..."

"By the Seven!" Ekor, the most seasoned of my companions, gasped in shock, staring wide-eyed to the arid ground of our campsite. However, before anyone could inquire what had upset him, Ekor relaxed and let out a relieved laughter. "For a moment I thought this was a real hand," he explained, pointing to a pile of pebbles near our meager fire.

"It may not be a real hand, but it is a real sign that we are closing in on our goal," I noted after kneeling down and inspecting his finding. "Look at the stone it is made from!" I held the stony hand closer to the light of the fire. "It is Valyrian Marble, I have no doubt."

Though the discovery didn't chase away the gloomy feeling altogether, knowing that we had come to the right place lifted our spirits. We surveyed our campsite before we lay down for the night, and uncovered a handful of other carvings. All were shattered and broken, but we could still make out what the pieces had depicted. A large beetle, some of its twig-like legs missing. A bird, the beak and legs broken, but the head and wings were fully intact. The tail of a crustacean and one of its claws. The largest piece had been a flower, but it lacked a stem and leaves, and we could only guess its full size. However, we didn't find any raw marble in the rubble. What we had discovered were likely pieces of damaged statues that the artist had discarded as they couldn't be sold in this state.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

The starless sky bore the deepest, darkest shade of red I had ever seen when a frantic whisper woke me from my slumber, and the blood moon still stood high above. I recognized Haegon once my eyes had grown accustomed to the scarlet twilight, but I was unsure which language he spoke. "The natives, they came back to their village!" I could finally make out in his muttering. Confused, I sat up, looked around and found our companions already awake, observing the village from a shelter behind large, craggy boulders. "They are engaged in some sort of ritual or ceremony," Haegon continued, his voice still haunted and hushed. "And the thing... The terrible thing they brought with them..."

We crawled to the boulders and joined the others in their silent observation, and what we witnessed still haunts me to the day. The natives had gathered in their village's center, around a crude platform carved out of the rock. They wore hoods and long robes despite the lingering heat, except for one, though I couldn't see if it was a man or a woman from this distance. Monotonous chants emerged as the villagers backed away, slowly formed a half circle, leaving the hoodless person standing in front of the platform alone.

And then it moved. The platform was neither a platform nor made of stone. It was a creature, a creature so terrible I shudder at the mere thought. It had been curled up like a snake, but now it unraveled itself, revealed a slithering form the length of three horses. An enormous lizard, gliding across the ground on too many legs, moving toward the lone, hoodless figure. Spikes and bony dorsal fins lined the beast's spine, and its eyes were at the same time dull and glowing as it encircled its prey.

Frozen in fear, I kept staring, unable to avert my gaze from the horrible sight. Watched as the creature arched its unnaturally long, spiky back. Heard the otherworldly hissing noise it made before its head dashed forward and spewed a liquid of some sort at its victim. The guttural chanting of the hooded villagers grew louder and louder, echoed through the rutted canyons of the mountains and across the western valley.

It felt as if the gruesome ceremony lasted a lifetime, and we had no choice but to witness it all. The boulders sheltered us from the villagers' view, but descending the path and trying to reach the shoreline would have exposed us even in the twilight; a risk none of us was willing to take. And so we endured in our hideout, not daring to speak, not even daring to breathe, surrounded by shattered pieces of statues that could never be worth coming to this dreadful lands in the first place.

 

The sky had taken on a marginally lighter shade of red when the hooded villagers followed the creature to a pass leading higher into the mountains. Their chants were fainter now, not only due to the greater distance. It appeared they were herding the ghastly creature, lulling it with a soothing song. All that remained in the village's center was the hoodless person, a sacrifice to their dark god, I surmised. In the dim light I could finally make out that it was man, and I also saw why he had not tried to flee during the ritual we had seen in the night. Pieces of rope lay on the ground near his feet, but they looked brittle and reminded me of broken stone.

Once the hooded procession had disappeared into the pass, the man apparently sensed his chance to escape. He woke from his motionless state and tried to lunge toward a spear on the ground, perhaps hoping to arm himself, should his captors return. However, something was wrong with his movements, with his skin and his armor. It seemed as if his limbs were heavier than he thought, as if he was moving under water or as if time itself had slowed down around him. Part of the armor he wore had lost its color and the same could be said for the man's exposed skin. He reached the spear, knelt down and closed his hand around the shaft, then remained this way, in a kneeling position. In his attempt to stand up again his motions became slower and slower, and the swarthy complexion of his skin more and more turned into a horrifically familiar shade of grey.

When we cautiously approached the village, all we found was the shimmering statue of a kneeling warrior, made from the flawless, shimmering Valyrian Marble we sought. With our daggers drawn we searched the huts, though none of us had any hope that we'd find Maester Jeraume anymore. I don't know what we were looking for. Evidence, perhaps, something to prove that what we had seen had truly happened. I was not surprised that we found no such thing though, and that there were no chiseling tools or artworks in progress either. There was no 'exceptionally shapeable stone', no artist, only the terrible truth that would forever haunt my dreams.

 

We were about to conclude our survey of the village when something behind the huts, near the plateau's edge, caught my eye. My men were eager to leave while we could, after all, we didn't know when the natives would return, if the abomination would still be with them. I told Ekor to go ahead and wait for me by the campsite, then I went to investigate the discovery I had made.

His hair, once ash blond, was now shimmering and grey, as was his skin and the robe I recognized as a maester's. Every wrinkle, every seam, every feature was flawless and lifelike, and I almost expected the sleeves on his outspread arms to move in the dry breeze. Had he escaped the village without thought toward direction? Had he hoped to hurl himself over the edge of the precipice before the transformation reached its macabre conclusion? Had he been surprised by the creature while taking in the view across the endless Lands of the Long Summer?

I will never know how Maester Jeraume met his end, and somehow I think it is better this way. The horrors I witnessed will last me a lifetime, I don't need another nightmarish thought to keep me awake.

 

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

 

When I returned to Oldtown I told Lord Buntley that the Conclave had been right all along, that a stone mason from Qohor had made the carvings and statues. That there was no Valyrian Marble, that several pirates and sailors had confirmed that Jeraume had taken his own life after being exposed as a fraud. I didn't care that Lord Buntley was furious about the lost value of his collection. Jeraume, that much I had learned about him, didn't deserve to be held in high esteem as an exceptional artist. His greed and hubris had caused enough grief in its wake, and though I didn't always make the best choices I certainly strive to be a better man than he was.

What I had seen on the journey, what I saw again and again when I closed my eyes, had quenched the thirst for mystery and adventure I once had. I left the _Dragon's Dream_ to Haegon, as far as I know he set out to find his kin in the east. But I could not go back to the sea, not after knowing what terrors lingers beyond. Instead of sailing with him, I remained in Oldtown where I found employment as a scribe and kept Jeraume's foolish promise. I gave Ganesh the life in freedom he had bargained for, raised him as my son, far away from foreign shores and their monsters. I showed him the Citadel, took him to a castle, taught him the Common Tongue, how to read and to write. There is only one thing I will never show him, never tell him about. The truth about his mother whose likeness I once saw reaching for the painted sky over Oldtown in Lord Buntley's manse long ago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next in this series: An excursion to the arctic horrors of the White Waste (oneshot).


End file.
